The Hound
by Aabysinyaa
Summary: John's been living in a cabin in Dartmoor since he came back from Afghanistan. But there's something living in the forest.


This was the last place John Watson had expected to end up after being cut from the army with his injury.

But here he was, renting a dingy cabin for a hundred and fifty pounds a week on the edge of Dartmoor forest. _(AN:/ I live in Australia, I have no idea about the geography of this area or even if it exists geographically. I googled baskervilles for this.)_ Having only lived there a few short months Watson was no stranger to the odd happenings of the area.

Howls echoed nightly, though wolves no longer roamed, enormous footprints were found daily around his home, made in the night, unlike any he'd ever seen before.

The people who'd lived here their whole lives claimed it was the base behind the forest that caused the eerie sounds but John was skeptical. Still he kept the footprints and odd snuffling he heard a secret.

He didn't want the ridiculous fanatics pissing themselves to come over for tea and plaster cast moldings.

He'd tried to catch a glimpse of the creature one sleepless night and all he'd found was a tuft or two of curly black fur caught in a nail sticking out of the wood panel under his bedroom window as well as an unpleasant amount of piss on the ground below that, the uncomfortably pungent musky smell making him retreat back inside his home.

It was three months before he actually caught a glimpse of it. The full moon reflecting gently off a shining, curly black coat, and yet still another two months before, on an early morning trip, John found a tall, pale and rather skinny man wrapped in a tattered gray blanket in an indentation in the side of a small hill.

His thick black curly hair sparkling with morning frost. Startled John almost dropped his cane. He'd never seen this man here before, not in the forest or in town, not even on his fortnightly trips out of town to see his psychologist. Even as he stared the stranger stirred lightly in his slumber.

Nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly the man jolted awake, to his feet and away from John so fast he could barely follow his movements.

"Hey whoa, its okay, its fine, it's all, fine," John explained awkwardly, careful not to look down at the man's obvious nakedness. The man frowned, before curling his lip in an aggressive gesture, showing remarkably long upper canine teeth.

"Right," John began,

"Shut up," rumbled a incredibly deep voice; the man. He didn't hide the fact that he was looking around as though checking to make sure that they were alone before focusing his almost unnatural silvery-grey gaze back on John.

"What are you doing here? Why?" John raised an eyebrow at the questioning,

"Right, I feel like that's a question I should be asking, after all I'm not the one sleeping under a little blanket and walking around naked," the man scowled, a rumble almost like a growl clawing it's way up his throat and making the hair on the back of John's neck stand up a little.

"Just answer me," he sneered.

"John, I live near here and I was just going for a bloody walk," John told him unhappy at the accusatory tone.

"You're the one that lives in the cabin?" the stranger leaned closer and sniffed gently, "Oh, yes so you are," John raised an eyebrow at the odd behavior.

"Look you're naked in a forest and its below fifteen degrees. (AN:/ Here that's cold, well to me anyway.) Come with me I'll find you some clothes and some food," John told him, noticing the protruding bones.

The stranger scowled, "I'm fine right where I am," he sneered,

"Sleeping naked in a ditch?" John retorted crossing his arms.

He suppressed the urge to chuckle when the man's eye twitched at the statement. Plucking his blanket from the ground and folding it neatly before gesturing for John to lead the way.

Once back at his cabin John plucked an old sweater that had always been far to large for him and pair of boxers, throwing them to the man.

"What's your name?" the stranger stared intensely at him for a moment before,

"Sherlock, my name is Sherlock," slipping on the clothes the man, Sherlock settled himself into one of the dining chairs.

"Right then, Sherlock," John told him, setting a plate filled with slices of bread, cold meats and fruits.

Wincing slightly in disgust at the sight of Sherlock scarfing it down like a starved man, and judging by the level of emaciation that was probably a truth.

"What were you doing in the forest Sherlock?" John questioned gently. Piercing molten eyes locked on him, narrowing in suspicion.

"Living there," he grumbled, "I wouldn't camp in a ditch for fun".

"Any relatives I can call?"

"No, none that could help me," he replied coldly.

"Just," John struggled for the right course of action, "kip here for as long as you need then". Another cold, but now curious look.

"You're letting a man you found in the woods stay in your home? Granted you're retired military but I don't think that would condone reckless behavior," he stared harder, "Oh I see, the retirement wasn't voluntary, you're injured, yes of course you use a cane, but you're just standing there, like you forget its even there, psychosomatic? Yes," Sherlock took a small bite out of a piece of cheese then a slice of apple.

John narrowed his eyes, "How did you know that?"

"Obvious!" Sherlock proclaimed through a mouthful of food. "You've retained a uneven tan line, but only at the wrists and neck, obviously this wasn't a trip for pleasure, and the way you hold yourself suggests military, you walk with a limp, but you're just standing there, as though you forget that you're injured, so the injury must be psychosomatic," John frowned,

"Brilliant," just the single word of amazement was enough for Sherlock to perk up, giving him a twitch of a smile.

And so began a brand new routine. Sherlock living with John, they'd achieved a strange friendship of sorts and a routine, Sherlock was easily bored and when he was bored he got destructive.

John had created different challenges that kept Sherlock distracted, they usually involved things going missing and hiding them somewhere in the forest. But they never kept him for long.

At one point Sherlock returning with dirt speckling his face and hair and in his head John had found himself thinking of a retriever.

He'd also taken to solving crimes that had shown up in the paper for fun also. Allowing John to leave anonymous tips for the police when he did.

For Sherlock, having John around was good for him, he appreciated the man's help with boredom and providing food.

Though he had no money Sherlock would have been able to hunt something down for the man, and he knew John wasn't a squeamish man so he'd appreciate it, but he didn't want to draw suspicions to himself.

Since he'd changed he hadn't felt this connection to anyone before.

Since he'd been made into a monster.

He'd smelt John, before they'd met, the cabin type place they lived was within his area of roaming but never truly encountered the man.

His trust, something he'd once thought impossible for anyone to gain was being willingly given to this man. He found himself debating daily whether or not to tell the man of his affliction.

Nearly a year had passed and Sherlock and John had grown closer still.

John had found that after a while the pain had vanished and he no longer needed the cane. They always got themselves into trouble and Sherlock was always up for an interesting adventure that gave John that hit of adrenaline.

"John?" Sherlock asked one night. John looked over to where Sherlock lay sprawled upon the couch. Eyes an almost unearthly silver in the dim lights. "Yes?"

"If I was different, wrong would you still like me?" this was the most vulnerable John had ever heard him sound, so he explained the truth.

"You're not wrong Sherlock, but you are different and I do care for you,"

"I don't mean that ordinary different John, I mean what if someone made me different, horrible, into a monster," Sherlock shivered self consciously, eying John with desperation in his eyes.

"Then I'd feel no different to how I do now, and I'd hunt down the unethical bastard who did it to you and slaughter them, I'm a doctor, I reserve the right to know where to hit them where it hurts".

Clambering to his feet Sherlock shuffled over, dropping pieces of clothing as he went, till he stood in front of John naked. John felt his jaw hit the floor. Face flushing hotly, Sherlock had always been blunt and forward but this was a little too much.

Leaning over him Sherlock pecked him lightly on the lips.

"Just once in case you want me to leave," he mumbled before crouching on all fours on the floor and shifted.

Growing.

And growing.

And growing. Till an enormous canine like animal stood in front of him.

John was shocked, this was it, the creature everyone had been desperate to find. The one they said was a crazy experiment from Baskerville base.

A soft, thick, raven wing black fur covered the creature an even bigger curly mane wrapped it neck almost like a lion and it had floppy ears that lay folded back. However it's tail was reptilian covered with soft looking black scales that faded to a slightly lighter color underneath. Then instead of a dogs forepaws there were two reptilian legs that ended in hand-like forepaws with delicate fingers and dagger-like claws.

His eyes were a molten silver and two fang tips poked through his lips.

He'd seen some of these features before and realized that the dog parts reminded him a lot of the breed the borzoi.

John's observations continued for some time before with a deep breath John held out a hand towards him.

The creature, Sherlock approached slowly sniffing nervously from deer like nostrils.

Once close enough John smiled and thrust hands into the feathery fur, patting and scratching gently.

"Well. This is different, but Sherlock, I'd never judge you for this, its a part of you, now," leaning forward he pecked the end of Sherlock's snout, "You're a brilliant, unique man, and that why I love you".

Sherlock shifted back, pulling John into a rough kiss, full of desperate relief. His panic over losing John fading into the background and the tension finding its release.

Grappling for clothes and tugging at hair and they fell into bed. Moans a whines of pleasure echoing through the forest around them.

Two Hours Later...

John lay awake spooned in Sherlock's arms, eyes narrowed with anger, the people of Baskerville had done this to him, they'd changed him, made him doubt himself as a human being.

This were definitely going to happen.

Sherlock would want revenge, and John would gladly help.

They were going to take them down.


End file.
